A Long Lost Friend
by TruffleHead
Summary: John Watson has just passed away, and Sherlock is falling apart; he hasn't left his flat since. When Molly herself comes to the flat, however, she finally realizes that it's now, or never. Sherlolly.


**This was actually the very first fanfiction I've ever written; it was like an experiment, of sorts. :P I wasn't planning on acutally posting it, but I've changed my mind, obviously, because I'm looking for some advice on how to improve. :)**  
**Any tips are, as always, appreciated. :) I am aware that there are some plot holes- I'll have to work on that. **  
**Well, enjoy!  
I don't own Sherlock, or Doctor Who. (I know, It's depressing) ;)  
**

It didn't take long to find him. I know that he's hardly gotten away from that place ever since Watson died. I call a Taxi and it glides to a stop right in front of 221 B Baker St.

After I knock, Ms. Hudson opens the door and gives me a half-hearted, wrinkly smile. "Ah, Molly, I haven't seen you since Christmas." Ms. Hudson says.

"Is Sherlock in?" I ask, already knowing the answer.

"Uptairs," she says wearily, "but do be careful. He's never been the same after... John..." Her voice trembles to a stop and she presses her lips together. After a couple of moments she sighs, opens the door wider and closes it behind me as I start to ascend the stairs.

I can tell he's there even before I see him. Newspapers, books, and all sorts of medical equipment are strewn everywhere. I can hear some sort of scraping noise coming from the kitchen followed by a loud bang.

I knock on the doorframe, for the door itself is already wide open, but when it and the next are met with no response, I walk right in.

For a few seconds I only stand there, watching him, hunched over the table, looking at something through his magnifying glass, then hurrying over to rummage through a drawer full of... I'm not even going to pretend I know what those are. He doesn't even look at me, although I'm certain he knows I'm here.

I reach my hand into my pocket and pull out the whole reason I came here in the first place: a vial of some red powder Sherlock had said he needed for the case. I set it on the table, on top of a stack of books. The soft thud it makes convinces him to look up. He uncaps the bottle and sprinkles some of it into some sort of liquid which immediately starts sizzling.

Suddenly I feel quite bold. "I know what you're doing," I venture. "Drowning yourself in work, as a distraction. To help you cope."

He doesn't acknowledge me; he just keeps working on what I think might me three cases at once. But I understand the feeling; a friend ripped away from you, right when you were really getting to know them, right when you think they might mean something more... I stop that train of thought immediately, for I can feel tears coming to my eyes.

Instead, I direct my vision back to Sherlock, who, if I'm not mistaken, is getting increasingly flustered. It seems to me that after John passed his character was slowly, but surely, deteriorating.

"But it's not working, is it?" I say. I know because of his clenching fists and shaky breaths that Sherlock is certainly not feeling better than he was a few weeks ago, right after Watson's death, when he could at least maintain a hard expression and keep all his emotions inside. He's always been a master at that.

He inhales sharply as he jerks his head up toward me, as if to tell me something long and complicated. However, he just looks directly into my eyes, his piercing blue eyes cold, calculating; searching me. Those eyes also tell me something else, though: he's holding back tears.

"What do you want from me?" Pain shines through his deep, rich voice.

I realize that this is my moment, that I'll never have another chance like this one. If I'm going to do it, it has to be now. It almost feels mean to take advantage of him while he's like this, but I know I'll never muster enough courage to do it ever again- not when I know for sure he'll put up a fight.

"I want Sherlock back," I say slowly but defiantly because the last few weeks have been dreadful; it's almost like he's not even here anymore. Happy with my reasoning, I lean forward and kiss him squarely on the lips.

He is completely unprepared. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before. Sherlock doesn't pull away, however, he just freezes.

I give him a break; after a few moments I pull away. Too afraid to meet his eyes, I bite my lip and stare at the floor, distracted by a weird noise coming from outside that is very hard to place. I swear I've heard it before...

I think my heart literally stops as I find myself with his lips on mine again. Except I didn't start this kiss; this is an entirely different side to Sherlock, and one that I like very much. His lips are still sad, though- sad and lonely.

The odd noise in the background stops, and he quickly pulls away and heads for the window. A slow smile creeps onto his face. Sherlock hasn't smiled in weeks.

"Don't worry," I think he's saying in that chocolaty voice of his, although my head is swimming so hard I could swear there's a police box in the front yard. "There's someone who just arrived who's sure to explain."

His eyes are somehow happier now, a little sparkle of hope in them. He grabs his coat and it whooshes around him as he puts it on. I'm still grabbing the windowpane for support. Okay. I'm completely delusional. A man in a bow tie rushes up the stairs, followed by a very confused Ms. Hudson.

"Doctor," Sherlock says with a slight nod of his head. He walks over to me to put his arms around me, and then guides me over to the man. I grip Sherlock's coat tightly, still not entirely sure whether I'm awake or not.

"Tell me Watson's alive." Sherlock says quietly. I can hear the desperation creeping back into his voice.

This 'Doctor' only smiles a little half smile and nods. Sherlock exhales with relief.

"Well, come on then," bow tie man says to me, waving his hands at the door. "Watson's in the TARDIS. The whole... death... thing was his idea. Sorry we couldn't tell you; something about Moriarty and reading minds. Okay, TARDIS!"

Then I remember. How could I have _not _remembered him? The Doctor. My best friend who could always tell a good joke and make me smile, who appeared right after my mother and father died in a mysterious accident three years ago. Only a year later after I had met him, he tells me he has to go. He was a spy sent here. Undercover. His whole person was a lie. Forget him. Don't tell anybody. Then a quick muttering about a time vortex and he was gone. I never saw him again.

Until now.

I gasped, remembering. I look around to find that The Doctor is looking right at me, and I know he remembers me, too.

The Doctor smiles tightly at me. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, and I can tell he means it. "I can explain everything later."

"Molly?" I turn to Sherlock, who's about to step into the TARDIS. "Are you coming?"

Amidst all this stress, I find myself smiling. "Yes," I said, "I'm coming." And these darned people better have some explaining to do.

**I'm not planning on continuing this- mostly because I'm lazy and cannot handle writing two multichapter stories at once, but also becase I'm out of ideas. You never know, though. :) Thanks for reading!**

**=^..^= TruffleHead**


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